


it's been a cold, cold winter

by vxle



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, I don't even fucking know, I haven't slept in about four days, I'll go to sleep now, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Poetry, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, except without the shitty straight people ending, fucking queer baiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:28:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vxle/pseuds/vxle
Summary: There are fingertips on your cheekbones, regrets hiding in the callouses, apologies pressed into your skin like flowers in a diary. His hands trail, uncertain, along your collarbones as if to say hello, as if to say, I’m back now, welcome me home.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	it's been a cold, cold winter

He whispers, _it’s been a cold, cold winter_. There are so many things you want to answer, but you don’t. It is morning. It is afternoon, or perhaps some god-forsaken hour of the night. You don’t know: you don’t wish to. Nothingness reigns in the air yet the sun is rising in front of your enlaced figures, heavy, solid, warm. The sun has become him, he has become the sun. Maybe he has always been the sun and only now you’ve taken the time to notice the sunset hues hidden between the greens of his eyes.

There are fingertips on your cheekbones, regrets hiding in the callouses, apologies pressed into your skin like flowers in a diary. His hands trail, uncertain, along your collarbones as if to say hello, as if to say, _I’m back now, welcome me home_.

And you do. You murmur it to the freckles on his left shoulder, to the slight crook of his nose. You press your body against his, feel every hard curve from the edge of his toes to the tip his scalp, heave it into the arch of his ear. You trace it above his cheeks, underneath the fluttering eyelashes. Along the closed lids, ocean’s corals hiding underneath a white layer of skin. You and him both know that if you ripped it off you’d find your initials carved into the flesh like on a school desk.

Words are more a burden than a privilege nowadays, they crawl up the wet skin of your throat and sit on the roof of your tongue in a half-assed mockery: let your body speak instead. _Welcome back_ , it says, _I am your home and if you ever wanted to crawl inside my skin and leave handprints on the insides of my bones, I’d be thrilled to unzip my flesh like a backpack_.

Those artist fingers still know how to twist and pull until they dip into the edge of your soul like sand on a shore: you catch them halfway through and lace them against the cold hardness of yours. Your eyes catch the determination on his face, eyebrows raised towards the skies, he brings your hands up to the sun and lifts them high, high up. If that gesture had a name it’d be called “we’re no longer afraid”.

(It’s been a cold, cold winter, my love, but beyond those snowed mountains, daylight is stirring and so are we. We’ve awoken from the depth of broken glass and blood-stained snow. Let us rise unhinged, whole for the first time in centuries. Let us love from the depth of our weighted souls, because I’d fall down that goddamned mountain a thousand times if it means we end up here again. I’m the last person in this world that deserves a second chance but somehow it’s here and I swear on my fucking life, I’m going to learn how to love you in a way that compensates for everything this life has thrown at us.) 

**Author's Note:**

> I need some serious sleep and I'm going to regret posting this tomorrow because I haven't even proofread it. I can't even tell if it's good or not anymore. Enjoy :)


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